Playing House
by lightblue-Nymphadora
Summary: Rachel's babysitting. Santana's jealous. Written for Pezberry Week: Having Children. Rated for language.


**Playing House**

Santana grinned and rolled her eyes when she came out of the bedroom to find her work partner having breakfast with her life partner. "Max, why are you in my kitchen eating pancakes?" she asked.

"He got here a bit early with baby superhero here," Rachel said, bouncing Max's daughter on her lap. "So I offered him breakfast."

"And you know I never turn down food!" he said.

"Aint that the truth." She gave Rachel a kiss and ruffled the baby's curly hair.

"Happy one year with the FBI," Rachel told her, handing her a plate of pancakes.

"Thanks, baby. Any big plans for the day?"

"Playgroup in the park, home for lunch, an episode or two of Backyardigans, then nap time."

"Sounds eventful," Max said, standing up. "Right, we've got to roll, San. Dark Knight and Catwoman are out."

Santana finished shoveling pancakes into her mouth and chugged her glass of milk. "For the record, I'm super glad you gave yourself that nickname," she said. "Pretty sure it would've been slightly racist if I had done it."

"Still funny as hell though."

Santana gave Rachel another kiss. "Need me to pick up anything for dinner?"

"No, we're good," the actress said. "Have a good day saving the world!"

* * *

The park was bustling that morning. The playgroup had found a spot on the grass and were playing with a parachute, much to the delight of the toddlers. Most of the toddlers, anyway. No matter how many silly faces Rachel made, Sahara just wasn't in the mood today. She'd been fussing for a while, and Rachel had a feeling the tears would start soon.

"She's precious," one of the moms said. "Is she yours?"

"No, I'm just the babysitter," Rachel told her, smiling even though her heart sank as it always did when she said that. "My wife works for the FBI. This is her partner's kiddo."

"Oh, I see. So how long have you two been married?"

"Five years now. It's our anniversary next month."

"Congratulations! My husband and I have been together for two. Had this little guy last November," she said, kissing her little boy on the head. "Any plans for your own?"

"Er…we're thinking about it." That wasn't entirely a lie. They'd had the talk and Santana wanted to wait. Rachel wasn't going to push her, but she was always thinking about it. "Do you guys come here every week?"

"We try to. We've been on vacation visiting my husband's family in Wyoming, but we're usually here."

"What's your little boy's name?"

"Ryan. And the little princess here?"

"This is Sahara…and I don't know if she's feeling too well this morning," Rachel said. "She's been kind of fussy."

"I have a forehead thermometer!"

* * *

"Damn, the one year mark is no joke around here," Santana said, looking at her cubicle. It was decorated in streamers and balloons, and there was an envelope on her desk.

"First year's the hardest," their team leader, Seekins, said. "Of course, they tell you that about every year, so…."

The rest of the team laughed as Max ushered Santana to her chair and put a paper crown on her.

"Welcome to your second year in the BAU," Seekins said. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

Santana laughed and picked up the envelope. "What's this?" she asked.

"Open it and find out."

It was a page from a coloring book. A coloring book that she'd never forget. Tinkerbell and Friends—it had been in the bunker when they'd rescued a little girl from her kidnapper. The page was colored in with crayons, and there was a note on the back in big clunky letters.

_**Dear Miss Santana,**_

_**Thank you for bringing me back to my family. I love you and I'll never forget you.**_

_**Love, Emily.**_

There was a stick figure drawing at the bottom of a little girl and a woman with a shirt that said FBI on it. Santana very nearly started crying.

"Right…enough celebrating," Seekins said. "You all have paperwork to do, and then we're meeting for a briefing at noon before you go home. Half day for the board presentations," he reminded them.

From the next cubicle over, Santana heard Max's phone jingle. "Please tell me we don't have to go give another 'Why we're really on your side' talk to the NYPD," she groaned.

"Nah, it's Rachel. Sahara's running a fever apparently. Rachel thinks she's teething."

"Wait…you and Rachel text each other?"

"Uh, yeah? Of course we do…. She looks after my kid most days. It would be pretty inefficient of us to make you be the go between."

"Right."

"If you're not comfortable with it, though—"

"No, no…that's not it. I just never really thought about it, I guess." She shuffled through the files on her desk, trying to suppress the insanely unreasonable spark of jealousy that had shot through her. It was completely understandable that Max and Rachel would text each other about Sahara. What the hell was wrong with her? "Hey…speaking of the munchkin…what should we get her for her birthday?"

"Nothing. She already has too much stuff from where your wife spoils her mercilessly."

Santana laughed. "Can you blame her? She loves the cute little superhero."

"Don't I know it? No, but seriously, I figured we could all just do dinner. My parents will be down from Vermont. It'll be chill."

"I'm down for that. But fair warning? Rachel's still probably going to buy her half of Toys R Us."

* * *

When they got home, Rachel was cuddling on the couch with Sahara, who was fast asleep.

"Gave her some baby Advil with lunch," Rachel said, handing her to Max. "Poor munchkin's teething."

"Thanks. I'll have to stop for some teething rings, I guess," Max said.

"Did it," Rachel told him with a smile. "There are three in her diaper bag—one's already frozen for when she wakes up."

"You are a saint. Like seriously, they should build statues in your honor."

Santana stood watching this exchange quietly. The spark of jealously that she'd felt earlier was quickly turning into a full blown inferno. She still didn't get it, though. She'd watched them do this every day for the past…seven months? It didn't make sense as to why she was getting jealous all of a sudden.

"Santana?"

"Huh?" she said, snapping out of her thoughts. "Sorry, spaced off. What's up?"

"I was appealing to you on the matter of birthday presents," Max said with a grin.

She managed a small smile. "I'll try to keep the crazy in check."

"Hey!" Rachel started. "I don't know—"

"Mama."

The three adults went silent. No one moved as they eyed the sleepy toddler who was reaching for Rachel.

"Mama."

"Er…oops?" Max said with a nervous chuckle.

"We were at playgroup today," Rachel said in a quiet, strained voice. "She's probably been picking it up from the other kids."

"Well, she'll be able to say Rach and San soon enough," Santana said, watching her wife. She could tell by the actress's voice that Rachel was about to cry.

"Thanks for today," Max said. "See you both tomorrow."

"No problem," Rachel whispered.

Santana showed Max out and then went back to the living room. She found Rachel standing in the exact same spot, staring at the wall. "Babe—"

"I…I can't. I'm sorry, Santana, I need to be alone right now," she said, tears starting to fall.

"Rachel!" Santana called, watching her wife run to their bedroom. She sighed as the door closed. "Fuck."

* * *

The next morning, there were no pancakes. Both women had spent the afternoon avoiding each other, and then spent a restless night trying to sleep, failing, and pretending they were asleep to avoid talking. Rachel had gone in early to the Workshop—her non-profit dance studio for children that she'd started with Brittany, Brody and Kurt.

Santana set a cup of coffee next to Max when she got in to work. "Morning."

"Hey, S," he said. "Thanks, I needed this…. Munchkin kept me up last night. She's most definitely teething."

"Could I talk to you in the conference room? It's important," Santana said.

He looked up at her and nodded. "Let's go."

They made their way into one of the smaller conference rooms and shut the door. Santana paced for a second before speaking.

"I need you to do that thing you do when I'm freaking out about something and can't articulate it," she said finally.

"What, be the voice of reason?" he asked. "Look, if this is about that thing with Sahara—"

"That's just it…I don't know what it's about. I'm jealous of you for no other reason _than _Sahara, and I know that's idiotic, but I can't stop."

He sighed, rubbing his nearly bald head, and walked over to her. "I'm going to flick your nose, okay?"

"Fine," she grunted, and then winced when he did so. There were various methods of affectionate corporal punishment within the ranks of the BAU, rib poking and gentle shin kicking some of the more popular methods… but with these two it was nose flicking. "What was that for?" she asked.

"You really don't see it, do you?" he asked, astounded. "Santana, you're jealous of me because you want kids with Rachel. You want to get texts in the middle of the day about how your kids are doing…and have random dull conversations at the end of the day about teething and kids' shows and colorful poop. You want to walk in and find her doing the Peter Panda dance for your son, not my daughter. And you want to see your own kid calling her 'Mama'. For the past seven months, you've been cool with this, because you thought you didn't want kids. And she's been acting like taking care of Sahara every other day is enough, because she doesn't want to push you, and because she doesn't think she could handle hearing a final 'No' from you on the subject. But it's not enough. I saw her last night when Sahara called her 'Mama'. She wants kids, San. And somewhere along the line, you started wanting them too. Stop playing house, S. Your wife wants the real deal."

Santana flopped down into a chair. "Thanks," she said, relieved. "I'm a fucking idiot."

"Happens to the best of us."

* * *

Rachel came home exhausted. She'd helped Brody plan out two more dance camps, and her brain officially hurt. When she walked through the door, she smelled something heavenly. "Santana?" she called.

"Kitchen, babe!"

"That explains the wonderful smell of…what are we making?"

"Spinach ravioli with garlic bread," Santana said, smiling. "I thought maybe we could talk…."

"Good talk or a bad talk?" Rachel asked, pouring two glasses of wine.

"Definitely a good talk…so long as you still want kids."

Rachel's eyes lit up at that. "A good talk."


End file.
